


fragile pieces

by shilu_ette



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Atobe is an idiot, M/M, Ryoma is less of an idiot, they meet again and fight like kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 17:43:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5793880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shilu_ette/pseuds/shilu_ette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had once dated; they broke up when it turned out that Ryoma declined an offer for the U.S. Open. He was seventeen. He could not offer an explanation and Atobe also did not give a real reason when he bade him goodbye. He accepted that quietly and moved on.  They meet again years later and revive old ghosts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fragile pieces

They had once dated; they broke up when it turned out that Ryoma declined an offer for the U.S. Open. He was seventeen. Ryoma had never forgotten Atobe’s eyes then; bewildered and dazed, they stared at him across the café table when Ryoma told him the news.

He could not offer an explanation and Atobe also did not give a real reason when he bade him goodbye. He accepted that quietly and moved on.

(This is a lie, but his memory lanes are sometimes too tiring and painful to dig up. He has always been an advocate of short-term memory losses.)

 

**fragile pieces**

**atobe keigo x echizen ryoma**

 

The girl’s tits are exposed in the dim light, peeking against the sheen fabric of her white top. Ryoma takes another shot to mask his disgust. She is clinging onto him, her lips glistening in the dim bar. Just a few steps away, club music is blasting away and people are hooting lamely. Everything here is so very lame.

“Ryo,” the girl screeches, pressing incessantly closer to him. Ryoma tries hard not to roll his eyes; his mind is too fuzzed from the alcohol, but he’s pretty sure this girl is someone he knows. “Ryo, don’t just stand there! Dance with me!”

“You’re drunk,” Ryoma observes flatly, and gestures an empty hand towards the center of the room. “Jacob’s in there somewhere, go dance with him.”

“Jacob isn’t a gentleman,” she huffs, and she turns her head away but makes sure to batter her eyelashes. “I have some taste, you know. Gimme some credit.”

“Do you,” Ryoma mutters, and tries to leave it at that. But the light catches the edge of his vision and he turns, sharply. There are some things that he has not noticed before.

Drinks. He is drunk and he is sentimental and nostalgic, that must be it. He blurts out, “Your eyes.”

“What?” The girl’s faux-flirting smile fades and looks a little taken aback, as she laughs a little. “Oh. Oh. My eyes. That’s very strange, aren’t they? I never really liked them.” She hunches, and her previous mood of loudness fades. She is a shy girl as she averts his eyes.

Azure ocean eyes. A stormy sea that Ryoma is looking into.

Ryoma chugs the rest of his drink. He places the cup on the bar counter and says tiredly, “C’mon. I’ll take you home.”

/

/

_Ryo, your accent is very strange, you know. Japanese? You don’t see much of them around here. It's very….exotic, I think, very colorless. Your father lived here? Oh, he used to play tennis! I see—no wonder, I see you on the courts sometimes, with Jacob. But oh, aren’t you preparing for medical school?_

He pauses and tries to find his pants. _It’s for my resume._

_Oh god, haha. That’s so right._

_Well_. He looks for his belt next and stands up from the bed. _Just like everyone else._

 _Ryo, you should stay longer_. A hand reaches out to him and he steps back flawlessly and looks down at the eyes. Sober now, they are only grey and murky.

_Ryo, you’re very hot and everything, but you’re so cold. You come to New York every weekend with Jacob, and it’s been ages since you even talked to me._

The room stank of the aftermaths of sex. It was a dank and musky smell and made him want to throw up.

 _We have classes at ten, we have to take the first bus. Later._ He walks away, does not look back.

He does not really like the name Ryo. But Americans have a hard time pronouncing his name in broken syllables and he finds it easier to give them a false nickname than hearing them pronouncing it softly and wrongly.

Ryoma

There was one time his name sounded Western and not so strange. A British accent, very cold and sharp. Cutting. He erases those two amused syllables.

/

/

Later he says to Jacob as they are staggering to class, “You are a fucktard.”

“What?” Jacob is hung over with his baggy eyes and Ryoma is very sorry to have such a drunkard for a roommate. “Darling, your screeching doesn’t turn me on in the morning. You just had to drag me away from Lisa just when—“

“Shut up,” Ryoma cuts in, irritated. “You’re loud, and we had class.”

“And I could have stole your notes if you rode the first bus back to Boston!” Jacob gives him a winning smile that soon turns into a grimace. “Ouch, my head.”

“We had lab, you idiot.” Ryoma shifts his pile of textbooks with a grunt, touching his own head with a wince. “And the TA takes roll? Did you forget that?”

“Haven’t,” Jacob says grumpily. “Just evading my responsibilities—and hey, is that someone at the courts? Dude, it’s so cold right now!”

It’s November, and their college campus has six courts, although no one really uses them during the winter months. Ryoma doesn’t really head over to that lane even if he can help it because all the poses and serves ate amateur at best and he feels the need to step up and show them how it’s done. But Jacob is an enthusiast and he is now watching with his face pressed to the fence. “Good god, I haven’t seen that guy before! He looks a bit like you, you know. Doesn’t look like he’s from around here.”

“The score’s 4-2 right now,” someone says.

Ryoma does not always see the face of the person when he sees them play tennis. He first sees their serve, their aim and how they hit the racket against the ball. He observes the form of the person that Jacob is exclaiming over and thinks, That’s a clean serve.

He then sees the face and he blinks.

Ah. Light brown hair and blue grey eyes. Sharp cheekbones and a pale face. A sly smirk.

His throat constricts.

“I have to go,” he says to Jacob and turns away. But not before he sees Atobe’s eyes meets his. Atobe’s eyes widen and he misses his service game.

/

/

Later he is formally introduced to Atobe.

“See, I knew he was Japanese!!” Jacob crows when Ryoma squeezes past other classmates and refuses to look at Atobe sitting across from him. “He had your aura, you know! Hey, he also comes from Japan, just an exchange student from Oxford. Do you guys know each other?”

“No,” Ryoma says automatically, before Atobe could open his mouth. Atobe does not refute this.

Jacob cocks his head and narrows his eyes. “He knew your name, though,” he says, “And he used to play tennis, I think? Hey, didn’t you say that?”

“I did,” Atobe affirms, and Ryoma is about to give him a look, daring him to say anything about them but—“But I was mistaken. He looked like someone I knew.” Atobe lips curve up humorlessly. “Ryoma is a common name is Japan, after all.”

Jacob laughs. “That right? I can’t get used to hearing your accent, it’s so fucking classy.”

Atobe just smiles. His eyes swerve to Ryoma again.

“So, Keigo, have a drink, just stole this from a junior—wait, but you’re legal, aren’t you? Keigo’s two years older than us, lucky him,” Jacob says with a face.

Ryoma looks at him dumbly. “Keigo?” he repeats.

He did not introduce himself as Atobe, the family name that is now grasping Japan’s investments and banking. He did not say his full name that would have had everyone take a second look at him. They would not be meeting at such a dingy bar otherwise, with its shady lights.

Jacob grins at him, no awe in his words. “Yeah, that’s his name. Just Keigo, he said. Right?”

“Hm,” Atobe says, and raises a hand. A server comes up to them. “I could pay this round.”

“See?” Jacob whispers to Ryoma, warm breath tickling into his ears. “He’s a pretty cool guy and all. How was class?”

“Awful,” Ryoma manages. He averts his eyes.

 _Thump thump thump_ goes his heart.

/

/

There was once a time, back long ago, when Ryoma blurted out his given name without ceremony. Surnames didn’t matter to him, because he was American; he didn’t care about niceties and submission. He taunted Atobe regularly with barbed nicknames and crude surnames, but never affection or the respect that Ryoma sometimes (very grudgingly) associated him with.

But there was that one time.

“You said my name,” Atobe said slowly, and his eyes are narrowed as he tried to process that, Ryoma couldn’t pretend that it wasn’t anything important, not when Atobe had looked at him, dumbfounded.

“Yeah,” he said, and cleared his throat a bit, “Yeah. Guess I did.” He shoved Atobe back and the splutter Atobe gave was almost worth it. “Don’t get your hopes up, monkey king,” he jeered and laughed as Atobe tried to tackle him down.

But before, Atobe’s face.

Ryoma would never forget that.

/

/

Later, everyone is very drunk and Ryoma steps out of the building. The cold whips his face as he tries to fish out his pack of smoke. He walks a little way to a small isolated park and sits down. The wind is not very strong. He exhales and a mist of breath comes out of his mouth. He fingers his lighter and inhales. The smoke fills his lungs and tastes very bitter.

Someone approaches him and Ryoma does not bother to call him out on it.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Atobe remarks, gingerly feelings his hands on the grass for a dry spot before sitting down.

“I didn’t know you were alive,” Ryoma deadpans, blowing out in satisfaction. “Small wonders.”

Atobe gives him a small frown for that, his eyes hazy. “You’ve become brattier.”

“You’re still charming.” Ryoma flicks out some ash, suddenly tired. “Whatever. Why the fuck are you here?” _It’s not like you_ , Atobe would mock (if, indeed, this was the same Atobe Keigo Ryoma had left behind), _to be so direct. Always circumventing the point, driving me mad._

“I thought to be polite,” Atobe sniffs, “Clearly you—“

Ryoma stands up brusquely and dusts off the dirt on his pants. His cigarette falls, half-used, to the ground. He makes way to join the shouting crowd on the other side; Atobe snags his wrist at the last moment.

“Echizen.” Atobe voice loses its cool. It sounds tired, just how Ryoma feels, months and years of vacant anger that aims at an abyss. Ryoma doesn’t even try to yank himself out of it.

“I don’t have to listen to your bullshit any longer,” he says instead, quiet with venom, “We have nothing in common except tennis and some fag sessions. Don’t try to play chummy with me because of that.”

Atobe doesn’t reply for a few seconds; when he does, his coldness matches his own. “Don’t play trite to the things you once held dear,” he says.

Ryoma curls his lips. “I never held them _dear_ ,” he sneers, and he turns around to face the older boy. Chiseled and pale, his figure looms and hides in the shadows. “You did and Tezuka did. Don’t cram Seigaku’s delusions where they don’t belong.”

“Ryoma,” Atobe says, quiet, and that anger Atobe could have never hoped to revive suddenly does, “Those weren’t delusions. They—“

He doesn’t need to hear anymore. He stares at the darkness presented in front of him and punches Atobe with his free hand.

“You have some nerve,” he snaps, aware of Atobe staggering back holding his nose and his hand that went free, “saying my name like that.” He turns and bustles off, not caring if Atobe would be left to fend for his nose. He hopes with great fervor it’s broken.

/

/

Summer nights: when stars wouldn’t penetrate the foggy Tokyo heat, when his feet wiggled against the dewy grass, when Atobe was still a grudging Keigo. He scowled at how Atobe would grin at him below, his eyes wicked and no driver in sight, as he casually tossed a small pebble against his second floor window.

“You,” he mouthed, because it was almost three, and his parents were bound to be asleep, “Are mental.”

Atobe shrugged, his grin even wider as he nodded over to the pipe that was fastened next to his windowsill, gesturing to climb down, and Ryoma scowled at him in return. He shook his head, rolling his eyes at the insane idea of that venture; the pipe would surely break and all he would have to account his parents of a broken bone or two himself.

Atobe rolled his eyes with him, summoning his phone from his pocket and pressing buttons in quick succession. A moment later his phone, lying on his bedside, buzzed. He glanced at it:

_Jump._

He glared at Atobe, but this time, Atobe’s grin was more intense. His humor had gone and he—he’s serious, Ryoma thought, horrified and amused, as Atobe spread his arms wide, _Come,_ he mouthed mockingly.

Ryoma doesn’t know what possessed him, even now. He grinned, hesitant, and glanced at his phone one more time. It was this or the pipes. Or the back doors down the stairs, but he wasn’t willing to play it safe, not him. He hooked one foot on the edge of the sill and looked down challengingly. Atobe held his gaze.

He jumped.

Atobe caught him, two stories high as he came down, muffling his laughter and gasp as Ryoma collided with gravity into his chest. They both went crashing down the ground, crickets chirping in the night failing to mask their hilarity.

“You’re heavy,” Atobe said at last, his breath ragged.

“You’re insane,” Ryoma replied, pinning the laughing senior below him and searing a kiss.

The shaking inside his chest didn’t stop; adrenaline and danger and delight all rolled in one.

/

/

“Whoa, Keigo! What happened to your nose?!”

It was bruised, an ugly dark color blooming on Atobe’s face. Ryoma resolutely does not look at it.

“I slammed my face on the entrance door that night,” Atobe says without missing a beat. He ears Jacob laugh.

“You must’ve been wasted that night, dude! Looks like you don’t really miss the English pubs that much, yeah?”

“I suppose.” Atobe tone is very even and devoid of any emotion, so Ryoma just has to look at Atobe’s face again just to see what expression he is making. Their eyes meet.

“You face looks awful,” he says without thought.

Atobe quirks his lips humorlessly. “Does it,” he says, and offers nothing more.

/

/

He thinks in a dreamlike stupor; the shadows of Tokyo linger, curling smoke, and out of that smoke there emerges a hand.

 _Come_ , it beckons him. Tantalizing and elegant, Ryoma knows the hand’s owner. He had grasped out of his own will only once, and the rest he was made to follow. The hand waits; its owner is strangely patient today.

He reaches out and slides his cold palm against it, and those slim fingers curl and trap his hand.

 _That wasn’t so hard, was it?_ There is laughter, soft and gay, hilariously insane.

He thinks: eyes that mocked him throughout their affairs, those lips designed for a smirk. He had responded, barb for barb, a laugh for a laugh, and once, a smile for a smile.

They were in Shinjuku.

“Sometimes it wouldn’t hurt,” Atobe’s voice murmured in his ears, when December was cold and Christmas was looming, no one thought twice about two high school adolescent boys walking side-by-side. His hands snug in Atobe’s gloves that he snagged, Atobe giving them up with an air of a reluctant martyr, his steps brisk to match Atobe’s own.

“Hurt?” he echoed; he had lost their trail of morbid conversation.

Atobe shot him a look of exasperation, but he repeated the sentiment. “It’s wouldn’t hurt, once in a while,” he said again, “To indulge in pointless emotions.”

He must have looked blank, because Atobe rolled his eyes and muttered, “Forget it. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Obviously,” he pointed out, a little miffed that Atobe would dismiss him, yet again, for abilities that were beyond the realms of tennis, “You’re playing with words right now.”

Atobe gave him the look of one being painfully resigned, but he said flatly, “It’s snowing, it’s Christmas Eve, and there are people openly snogging in the streets. We are walking in the possibly most pedestrian streets in Japan right now and we’re walking a foot apart. Does that make things clear enough for you?”

“It’s also my birthday,” Ryoma pointed out, couldn’t help but bait him.

Atobe sighed, white air exhaling out of his mouth. “Yes, well,” he said irritably, “Happy Birthday, though god knows you don’t deserve it.”

“Liar,” Ryoma said, and smirked. He walked a step closer to Atobe, close enough to poke him. “I’m sure whatever you have planned would be fabulously indecent and extravagant.”

“I don’t _have_ anything up my sleeve,” Atobe said, snide.

Ryoma just grinned at him, and with another step, he was close enough to brush up against Atobe’s nose. Atobe raised an eyebrow. Ryoma kept his grin as he leaned forward.

The kiss was a soft touch of cold lips. It didn’t warm them and it certainly didn’t fuel them into an alleyway. But it was quiet; the sounds of Shinjuku faded away for a magical second, and involuntarily Ryoma closed his eyes before opening them and stepping back. Atobe eyed him, uncertain.

“You’ve been watching too many movies,” Ryoma informed him, and Atobe finally laughs, his breath caught in the icy wind.

They don’t hold hands as they make their way towards Hilton, where Atobe rented the entire dining hall reception just for the occasion.

/

/

They collide at the library a week later.

Ryoma blinks and Atobe steps back a little warily, hand heavy with books. The wariness that Atobe is displaying towards him is very new and foreign that Ryoma doesn't know what to do with it, except—“I’m not going to hit you in broad daylight, you know.”

Atobe stiffens and straightens up, adjusting his books with one hand. “I should hope not,” he says, a little off-handedly. “I think one was enough.”

“Also, you deserved it,” Ryoma shoots back, “You can’t deny that.” He lets a pause linger. “Keigo.”

Atobe starts and stares at him a little surprised. Ryoma had let the name slip, intentionally mocking, but it seems to him that Atobe does not get sarcasm anymore these days. “I—I suppose I did,” Atobe says. The same tired tone is back. “I was surprised. I didn’t think I would see you here.”

“Oh, no?” He lets a smirk play in his lips and shrugs. “Did you think I’d be somewhere off in a small college somewhere?”

Atobe does not answer to that, his eyes blank. He lost his sense of humor as well, Ryoma concludes. He is fast losing interest.

“I thought,” Atobe says, after a painful silence passes between them, “that I would never see you again.”

Ryoma looks down at the books Atobe borrowed instead of trying to answer that. He sees familiar names.

“Mishima,” he says.

Atobe looks down too. “Ah.” He frowns. “A bit of bedtime reading, I thought. It’s very quiet in Boston.”

“You once liked him,” Ryoma says, quiet. “Mishima.”

Atobe looks at him quickly at that, his eyes questioning. “I did, yes,” he says slowly. He doesn’t think to say anymore.

Years passed; silence dominates them painfully, otherwise, they will enter into realms of conversations that Ryoma does not want to get into—he would surely punch Atobe’s nose again.

“The Golden Pavilion,” Ryoma continues, feeling out of place, terribly itching to walk away, “Erm…. Confessions of a Mask. You mentioned them to me once.”

“I did,” Atobe concedes, hiding his confusion, “My tastes in literature back then were questionable.”

“You also liked Homer,” Ryoma points out, “Tolstoy and Dickens. You can’t tell me they were questionable.” He makes grandiose words into neat little quotations, bubbling and labeling them into a sinister joke.

“I meant,” and Atobe lifts his head to meet his eyes, “that I liked too many things I didn’t understand.”

His eyes don’t struggle with him to understand anymore. They’re wearied out and flat: smooth grey pebbles coming ashore, whetted away by colliding waves. Days and weeks that turned into years would have made him rehearse his speech, and it took a week’s worth and several encounters to take him down. Atobe, Ryoma reflects, would have made a terrible politician.

“Yeah?” Ryoma doesn’t rise to that bait though; an olive branch is too good for him now, “What’s taken to your fancy then?”

Atobe shrugs, flipping a page that he was seeking to find. “I don’t have time for idealism anymore,” he says and Ryoma could just hear the air-quotes, “idealism”— _yes, Echizen, delusions that I created and paid the price, that was my idealism._

/

/

In middle school, the feelings that Ryoma harbored for Atobe was mistaken for love. They would ride inside Atobe’s limo and look down at the dazzling Tokyo lights and Atobe would talk to him in English sometimes, and it was sometimes a relief to talk to him about foreign land overseas and be miffed about how Western Atobe’s tastes were sometimes. Other times they would fight but Atobe would sometimes take a step back and so would Ryoma and he was surprised at this side of him, the side that was willing to hold hands and play softly and nicely.

Atobe’s hands were bigger than his.

When they kissed, Atobe kissed him softly and his lips were always smooth and silken, and Atobe grasped the curve of his neck as they shifted together. He would always feel hot and uncomfortable and he did not know how to convey his feelings except to break apart and mutter, “The things you see in chick flicks, monkey king, is not going to work.”

Atobe would only roll his eyes once and look out of the window somewhere and when their eyes would meet Ryoma could feel a smile coming up and Atobe would smile back. They shared secret jokes that no one would understand. That was what falling in love was, Ryoma thought.

“Sometimes they might,” he had said. Ryoma did not answer to this but closed his eyes. They kissed again.

Why Atobe chose him all those years and vice versa was not a question for him back then. It was about tennis, he believed, and then later he thought it might mean something more.

That was his mistake.

/

/

Jacob is loud and boisterous, and he loved to drink. And here was Atobe, a new, older student aloof and from overseas (and, Jacob confides to Ryoma, just so fucking rich, or so he thought)—it called for nights at bars and drinking sprees.

And Atobe is drunk one night and no one is there except for Ryoma to blink at him as everyone else is dancing to the music.

Deja-vu, he thinks, staring into grey eyes that flicker over to him. Atobe is still composed but his eyes are loose and openly searching for something in Ryoma. They are beseeching eyes.

“Ryoma,” Atobe says, and the sound is so forlorn and very sad, amidst the blaring music and the dancing people. Suddenly they are not in cold Boston, but back in Tokyo and the familiar night-lights and the people that they associate with, the youth that defined them.

Ryoma does not take his eyes away. Atobe closes his eyes and opens them, slowly.

“Ryoma,” he repeats.

Those are names that Atobe had never offered to him often when they dated. They used surnames or affectionate insults, but they were now nothings and strangers in this strange land and Atobe is calling him by his name with those syllables and voice. For the first time, Ryoma feels older than Atobe and that makes him sag.

“You’re drunk,” he says instead. “Do you want to go home?”

Atobe does not take his eyes away from him, even when he stands up and offers him a hand.

“Ryoma,” Atobe repeats. He has yet to take his hand.

Names don’t mean anything. He could say _Keigo_ , soft and slippery as he had said it years ago in small doses, and still hold the scorn in his eyes. Or he could say it, really say it, all tease and jokes, Keigo, and his chest would still feel cold.

He doesn’t bother with neither, his lips curving a fraction, his voice dull, “Keigo,” he says, but his hands are limp by his sides. He talks as if he is addressing a child. Atobe doesn’t respond to that, those eyes unreadable. His mouth finally closes. “Do you want to go home?”

Names meant everything to them back then; he’ll do his best to trample onto it.

Atobe nods and finally takes his hand. It’s warm and suffocating.

/

/

They had never fucked before; and it is here, years later, that they stagger to Ryoma’s rented apartment room that he shares with Jacob and Atobe presses him against the wall and sears multiple kisses down his neck that they will and Ryoma feels nothing.

They enter the hallway entrance and make it to the bed and Ryoma takes off his shirt, his pants and Atobe pushes him down. His breath is hot and it is damp and clumsy, and his kisses are sloppy. They wouldn’t leave a mark.

They fuck. Ryoma doesn't know how else to say it. It doesn’t move him and it doesn't excite him. They are like the fucks that he had before Atobe and the fucks he would have after.

His back is very sore, though, because Atobe does not have finesse and Ryoma had to claw his back to tell him to go slower because he was like a brute forcing his way in through. He sits up after fifteen minutes. Atobe is still breathing shallowly from the other side of the bed. He rummages his pockets for his lighter.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” the voice says from the bedside.

Ryoma pauses as he flicks the lighter off, clicks it on again. The flame bursts for a second as he lights it to his cigarette. He gulps into it and exhales leisurely. “Should’ve fucked at your place,” he says, “At least I know proper etiquette to leave right after.”

“You’re not offering me hospitality?” The tone is a mild one, but it’s devoid of the forced amusement that irritated Ryoma to the ends of his restraint.

“I offered you my ass, what more do you want?” He taps the straying ashes out of his stick and blows in again. The prolonged silence this time is unmistakable, but Ryoma can’t feel anything but the familiar savage glee he finds in hurting him.

“You make this sound crass,” Atobe finally says, the same old tired voice that he perfected over the past week.

Ryoma rolls his eyes, although Atobe is on the other side of his bed. “That’s because it is,” he says, “It’s vulgar and crass. Besides,” he adds, after a deliberate pause, “I’m not a fag.”

“I didn’t take you for a homophobic,” Atobe replies. He hears the other side of the bed shifting; he’s getting up.

“I’m not,” he says, puncturing the words with sweet malice, “I just hate you.”

He breathes in his smoke in and out again, waiting for Atobe to process that. Why would he ponder on something so obvious?

“I…don’t understand,” Atobe finally says, and it’s very touching how Ryoma could make that urbane cool waver. He sees his past smirking with wicked eyes, _15-0 for you_ , crowing with victory.

“There’s nothing to understand,” Ryoma says, kindly enough. He doesn’t even bother to hold Atobe’s eyes as he says this. “Atobe, we didn't fuck because we liked each other. You were drunk.”

There is no reply to this except: “You don’t hate me.”

That response leaves Ryoma cold. “Don’t try to guess what I feel,” Ryoma snaps, and his cigarette snaps in half, “You tried that once and it didn’t work. Of course I hate you. I detest you.”

Silence. Soon Atobe sits up and Ryoma does not see him as he finds his clothes and puts them over. He only hears the sounds and Atobe’s even breathing, and he locks his eyes against the wall until Atobe walks out of the room and out of his apartment. The door closes after him.

Ryoma stubs his cigarette out.

/

/

They ended everything when he was seventeen.

He was offered a U.S. Open entry and he declined it, just when Tezuka was offered a scouting chance in the Australian Open and he accepted it. He had bid Tezuka goodbye and did not understand why Atobe had looked at him almost aghast at him for his decision.

“I just didn’t feel like it?” he had said, half-jokingly, and balked when Atobe merely frowned at him. “Monkey king, it’s just the Open. I still want to go to nationals and stuff. Don’t be like my old man.”

“They recruited you because you're so young and had promise,” Atobe stressed and crossed his arms. “You’re an idiot.”

Ryoma had rolled his eyes at that. “Yeah, but there’s nothing for me in America,” he dismissed, and at the spur of the moment, “Also. You’re still here, aren’t you?”

At this, Atobe uncrossed his arms and he stared at Ryoma. Ryoma fidgeted a little and scowled under the sudden scrutiny.

“What?”

“Echizen,” Atobe said slowly, and this should have been Ryoma’s warning, he would later think, “Please refrain from saying that I am the reason why you’re staying in Japan.”

Ryoma almost sputtered but managed, “Wow. I am always surprised at how large your ego grows. Of course it isn’t because of you, snap out of it.” He pauses, and adds a little off-handedly, “Maybe one of the reasons. You'd miss me, wouldn’t you?”

He expected Atobe to smirk at this and cock his head. He did not expect Atobe to maintain a blank face and look away.

A week later Atobe brings him to the same café and ends their relationship.

He still does not go to the Open.

/

/

In his dreams after their breakup, Ryoma always sees Atobe.

In his dreams Atobe is a monster; that is, he has red eyes and a cruel smile lurking in his face as he sneers the repeated words that haunted and would continue to haunt Ryoma: you are worthless without your tennis. You are a fool.

But Atobe had truly said those words.

In the café Atobe had looked at him with eyes that were strange and cold, and Ryoma suddenly had the thought that this would be Atobe Keigo years later as a businessman who is meeting his enemies and clients, who will rule Japan with the tips of his fingers. This will be an Atobe Keigo that Ryoma would never know.

“You’re a nobody without your tennis,” Atobe said to him that day, with flat words stating them as a fact, “Don’t be a fool and accept that offer.”

Ryoma frowned at this and prepared for a fight. “I’m going to the nationals,” he pointed out, but Atobe had sneered at him, and the sneer was not playful.

“You are such a child,” he said, “A Grand Slam is not going to compare to something so trite as a nationals victory.” Atobe paused. “Tezuka knew that.”

That made Ryoma sit up and he narrowed his eyes. “Don’t try to lecture my life in front of me,” he said, “That's Tezuka-senpai’s life.”

“I know,” Atobe smiled and it is the last smile that Ryoma would ever see on him, “And isn’t Tezuka all the more better for it?”

Ryoma tried to find his voice. “You can't define me by tennis,” he said, “Don’t be an asshole.”

Atobe said mildly, “Well, that’s all you’re worth though, isn’t it? I wouldn’t have looked twice at you otherwise.”

In his dreams, words are distorted and Ryoma woke up, sometimes in the middle of the night and tried to process the words. Time and time again, Ryoma forgot what Atobe had truly said and what Atobe said in his dreams. They are soon blurred together and Ryoma does not have Atobe any longer to check up the facts with him.

Ryoma did not go to the Open but moved to America and does not contact anyone from Japan save a few from Seigaku. A year later, he heard from Momoshiro that Atobe had accepted a place at Oxford.

He applied himself in chemistry and aimed for medical school instead.

/

/

Too many classes and parties. A month passes and Ryoma does not run into Atobe.

But the end of semester drinking party that Jacob drags Ryoma into is crammed full of people and Atobe is already there, his pale face shining in the poor yellow lights above him. He looks thinner.

“Yo! Keigo!”

Ryoma slips away from Jacob’s grasp and walks over to the other side of the room.

He drinks more than is necessary and parks his spot against a corner and observes people. Soon the room is hazy and he closes his eyes to adjust himself. He is so dead tried.

When he opens them again, Atobe is once again in front of him and this time, it is Atobe who is sober and Ryoma who is drunker than he actually should be.

“You need air,” Atobe says, and grabs his wrist. “Your face looks yellow.”

“Just the light,” Ryoma says, but he does not slap away the grip and Atobe does not reply to this.

The air is colder now than when they had first met, and Atobe leads them to the side of the building where it is quiet and isolated. His eyes are hooded and Ryoma sags against the wall.

“I leave Boston next week,” Atobe offers.

“Finally,” Ryoma sneers without any thought, and wishes for a smoke. “What do you want me to say? It wasn’t very nice seeing you again in my life, monkey king.”

“I need to talk to you,” Atobe says sharply and intakes a sharp breath. “As you’re aware.”

Ryoma waits; he is ready to rebut and slash through his defenses as Atobe stares at him with his haunted, gaunt eyes.

“I’m tired,” Atobe says slowly, his words carefully plucked and arranged in a symmetrical line, “So tired. Echizen, I didn’t come here expecting to see you, and I certainly didn’t except us to get along after everything.”

Ryoma cocks his head. Not surprising, this bit, he knew this was coming.

“What I said when you were seventeen was wrong. I thought back then and even now, I could and can move people to act as how I want them to. I thought, and still do, that people would…be better off if I were to lead them.”

Ryoma doesn’t sneer but he doesn’t nod either. He crosses him arms at the chill of the night air.

“And yes, I think that you had something. Certainly you had something that intrigued me all those years. You had something that made Tezuka reach out to you. Sacrifice everything, if you will. And—“ Atobe hesitates at the next bit, averting his eyes. He rubs his nose with the tips of his fingers, steels his hands and part them to rub against his cheeks. He falls silent; Ryoma shifts his foot.

“And, yes, I was prepared to do anything. Even if that meant sacrificing what I thought we had. What I felt for you. I thought you were wasted in Japan, and yes, perhaps I was right, perhaps not. We’ll never know, and I’m sorry for that. But I wasn’t sorry then and I thought—“

He’s talking in circles, Ryoma thinks, looking down and kicking his shoes, bored. Round and round he goes, as if a circle would ever reach the point inside the diameter. He should fire his insults, should walk away.

He stays. He thinks he deserves this, a small part of him, the idealistic part. He feels he needs justification.

Keigo sighs. “I thought perhaps, I wanted to see you rule the world with something Japan never had, ” he says, quiet. “I was nineteen, Ryoma. I thought the world was in my hands.”

“You still do,” Ryoma says, falling back against the wall. He can’t help it; he laughs. “That’s your sob-story then? I’m sorry for everything, but I was young and I was a fool—“

“You’re missing the point,” Atobe interjects, but Ryoma cuts him off.

“No, shut up, shut _up_. I’ll tell you what you’re going to tell me. You’re tired, are you? ‘I’m so tired, Echizen, I didn’t come here to see you, in fact I never thought of dreaming to see you, heavens I didn’t even think of you until I saw you in the damned tennis courts I never should have gone to. Guess what, now that I did, and boy, am I ever sorry that I did, I should weave a plausible story that you’ve had years to figure out on your own and hope past be bygones, shouldn’t we? After all, I’m Atobe Keigo and I rule the fucking world, and whatever past mistakes and fuck ups I’ve made, I made for the benefit of humankind and Japan in general, and you must see, _Ryoma_ , what I did was in the benefit of your shining talents. Do I regret what I did to you? I’m telling you I did but I’m also telling you, were I to go back I would do the same thing all over again because that’s what’s best for you.’ Still missing the point, am I? Let me tell you more, ‘Echizen, you’re being an irrational brat by not letting us bury the hatchet, do grow up and accept my half-hearted pathetic excuse for a self-justified apology. We fucked, didn’t we? That gives leeway for a peace agreement, don’t you agree?’”

Atobe’s face has gone white as Ryoma rambled, his monologue a jutted burst of what he wanted to say ever since he met the cursed face in the tennis courts.

“You know what?” Ryoma finally finished, his voice now risen into a shout, “It’s so unlike you to look back on your past mistakes from what little I know of you. Go on, board that fucking plane and I hope that we never meet again.”

He turns to go away. Atobe grips his arm.

“I.”

Ryoma whirls around and he wants to hit him again. Atobe’s lips are white and there are dark circles on his pale face. Why? For him? That was such an idiotic thought.

“I’m not so much of an idiot as to say that I love you now,” Atobe whispers. His voice is ragged. “But I did love you back then, and I am not going to be the idiot that I was to deny this now.” He lets out a breath. “You’re not young, either, to say that you miss that too.”

Ryoma narrows his eyes. “I once said,” he says coldly, “that you shouldn’t guess my thoughts. What are you, a real monkey?”

Atobe’s lips twitch humorlessly at that. “I think I can presume that much,” he says softly, “Ryoma. Why did you sleep with me?”

Azure eyes. Cold, blue eyes and a sea of emotions that brings back memories in fragments.

Ryoma sucks in a breath. “I don’t know about you,” he says, “but I just like to fuck. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.”

To his surprise, Atobe does not loosen his grip on him, only tightens it. “You always liked my eyes,” he says. “Jacob told me you only hook up with people with strange eyes.” He brings up another twitching smile. “And then he said to me, kind of like my own. I thought that interesting.”

Ryoma glares at him and his throat clogs up. “Do you do that often?” he spits out, his hand numb from the cold, “Go about sniffing dirt on other people?”

Atobe shrugs. “Only for you, it seems.”

It was about to snow.

/

/

The last day of classes were met with finals, and Ryoma holes himself up in his room and mindlessly studies and thinks even as Jacob whines for him.

“You told him about my sex life?” he asks once to his roommate, and Jacob shrugs, a little guilty and a little defiant.  
“He asked,” he says and wagged his eyebrows. “And you lied. You did know him before, you little twit.”

Ryoma whacks him with his textbook and stares at the wall some more. And there is nothing else that he can conclude except—

Atobe was leaving in a week. Jacob knows Atobe’s flight number and hands it to him with a little smirk. “I got this from Keigo,” he singsongs, as Ryoma makes a face, “ Just thought that you might need it.”

There had never been a choice, he thinks sourly.

/

/

Atobe does not look very surprised to see him, Ryoma thinks at first, but when Atobe stands up from his seat in the lounge, Ryoma sees that Atobe’s hands are shaking.

“I hate long distance relationships,” Ryoma says bluntly as soon as Atobe is in close range. “Also, I like my night life and outings. I’m going to med school and there’s going to be a shitton of work.”

Atobe lets him say his piece without comment, and when Ryoma stops, Atobe lets out a little smile and replies, “Not that I’m complaining, but this is such a fast turn of events.” Atobe pauses. “I didn't think you would’ve come.”

“Liar,” Ryoma snaps, “You gave Jacob your flight number.”

“Expectations and predictions aren’t the same thing,” Atobe comments.

Ryoma opens his mouth and closes it. He tries again. “I think I got everything off my chest,” he manages, “I hit you and shouted at you. That covered it up. I guess.” He gives Atobe a sharp look. “You never said that you loved me.”

“I know,” Atobe says; he does not offer him anymore.

Ryoma sighs. “So,” he says, but Atobe cuts him off this time.

“I have a plane,” he says, and a tinge of his old, forgotten arrogance is back that Ryoma blinks, “I suppose that I should make the seven hour flights on the weekends if you’re so inclined.”

Ryoma suppresses a smirk and raises an eyebrow. “Good thinking,” he only says, “I really hate boring boyfriends.”

“And I do hate Americans and this land,” Atobe says, “Except for you, it seems.”

That surprises a laugh out of Ryoma and he shakes his head. “I think it’s too early for this,” he says, but doesn’t move when Atobe takes his hand and brings it up to his face.

“You callouses are gone,” Atobe observes, and Ryoma instinctively tenses. Atobe goes on softly, “You’d make a good doctor one day.”

“Yeah, well.” Ryoma hesitates and nods once. “I never doubted that.”

Atobe laughs. He presses his lips against the palm of Ryoma’s hand and his eyes are very bright.

He does not say love again. It is too early for that, and mayhap it was early too, all those years ago. But soon. One day, Atobe’s kiss seemed to promise. And he did not let go of Ryoma’s hand until his boarding time.

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was once meant to be a long chaptered wip but I never really got around to writing it and I soon lost interest, so I tidied it up into an oneshot. I wanted to see a Ryoma and Keigo who broke up once and back together again when they are older and less idiotic to each other, because god they are two complete idiots???? I think inside my head at least. They need to grow up and date, it’s the only way they deserve each other (eyeroll). So I like my Ryoma and Keigo to be dark and obsessive and maniac, but I also like them fighting like cats and being childish overall. And realistic, but I kind of think this screamed OoC a lot (coughcough) so I can’t make that claim. At least I didn’t make Ryoma a tired and bitchy suicidal kid, so kudos for me.


End file.
